


Modern Love

by Avocado



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Aziraphale is male presenting but not male, F/M, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff, Giving Birth, Humour, Pining, Pregnant Reader, Raising a Child, Sexual Content, Smut, Tagged M for later content, Wingfic - kinda, bisexual reader, she her pronouns, time lapse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-24 23:17:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19733680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avocado/pseuds/Avocado
Summary: You’re pregnant and looking for a job. Then heaven sends you a man and his bookshop.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have a good omens problem, okay. 
> 
> Pregnant reader with she/her pronouns. I got the idea into my head and my friend convinced me to start writing it.

It’s London, and it’s raining. It’s not surprising. But you’re soaked to the bone and both look and feel like a drowned rat. You can’t stay out in this weather. You scan the area for somewhere to hide out until the barrage stops. Given that it’s Soho you look for the least seedy place to hide - it’s a godsend you spot a bookstore across the road - A. Z. Fell. You scuttle over to it, trying to cover yourself with your coat as best you can, rushing in to the chime of a bell.

It’s a lovely shop. Books stacked high on every shelf - old ones at that. Leather-bound tomes line cases that rise to the ceiling, and it smells of dust, but not unpleasantly. As you scan the place you hear someone moving in the back. Out walks a man, a little pair of reading glasses on his nose, blonde curls on his head, a book in his hands. He stares at you, sizing you up for a moment.

“Hello,” you say, awkwardly.

“Good morning. Are you… here to buy anything?”

His voice is soft. Sincere. You consider lying to him, but honesty has always been the best policy.

“I… just wanted to hide from the rain. I’m sorry. I can leave if you’d like.”

It’s odd, but immediately his demeanour changes. He lights up with a smile and closes his book before walking over to you.

“Of course not, my dear. It’s torrential out there. Come, let me take your coat. Why were you out in this weather?”

“I was, um, looking for a job actually,” you confess, undoing your buttons.

“A job?”

“Yes. I’ve already sent applications off on all the sites, now I’m going the old fashioned way with a CV. My old place let me go rather abruptly.”

“Oh dear. If you don’t mind me asking, how did that come about?”

The answer becomes clear once you shuck your coat. You’re seven months pregnant. You awkwardly put your hand on your stomach.

“They said it wasn’t to do with the baby, but I couldn’t dispute it. It was sort of cash-in-hand bar work so I didn’t have any way to fight without a contract.”

He nods and takes you in. You feel very embarrassed all of a sudden. Not quite sure why you opened up so easily to this man.

“Would you like a cup of tea to warm yourself up?” he asks, hanging your coat on the coat rack which you were sure hadn’t been there a moment ago.

“That would be lovely, thank you. Milk and no sugar.”

You sit down in a comfortable looking armchair as he goes into the back room once again, and soon you hear the sound of a kettle singing. You’re beginning to feel warmer already, and that’s only helped by the kind smile on his face when he brings in a tray and a teapot with two mugs.

“There we are,” he says, pouring you a drink and handing it over. The mug has little angel wings. It’s quite sweet.

“Thank you very much Mr Fell,” you say. He waves a hand.

“Please, call me Aziraphale.”

You tell him yours in return, and then furrow your brow and ask,

“Your name is… Aziraphale Fell?”

There’s a tiny pause, almost imperceptible. “Yes.”

You take a sip of tea. It’s lovely.

“You must think I’m very silly, mustn’t you? Going around in this weather, begging for a job.”

“No. I think you’re very brave,” he says quietly. You hope the warmth in your cheeks is because of the steam from your tea. “You don’t need to answer of course, but the father…?”

“Isn’t in the picture,” you confess. There’s something about this man. He’s easy to talk to. “It was a short lived romance and when he found out he made it clear he didn’t want anything to do with us. I wasn’t sure whether to go through with it but then I thought, I really want to give it a chance. So I’ve been trying to muddle my way through this whole thing and it’s been… difficult.”

“How would you like a job here?” You can’t hide the look of shock on your face.

“Are you… do you want to see my CV?” you ask, and once again he waves away your question with his hand.

“I’m sure you’ll be more than capable. There’s one condition.”

 _Please don’t be a sex condition_ , you think. That would really be the awful icing on an otherwise lovely cake.

“I don’t really like to part with my books. So any role you take on would be to… deflect sales from potential customers.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like… an anti-salesman?”

“Yes! Exactly!” he lights up. “How does that strike you?”

“I think I can do that,” you nod. “Being pregnant does make it quite a lot easier to sway people to your way of thinking.”

Really you should be thinking about taking leave, but you need money, and that’s at the forefront of your mind.

“Perfect! I can pay you… twenty pounds an hour?” he asks after doing some maths in his head. You almost drop your mug.

“An… hour?”

“Is that enough?” he asks, concerned. This man wants you to make no sales, but can offer you twenty quid an hour. How out of touch with reality is he? Or how rich?

“No! That’s plenty!” you squeak. “I can… start tomorrow?”

“Wonderful,” he says, and smiles. He has a truly lovely smile. It makes his whole face light up. He’s quite handsome, you decide, the longer you look at him. In a sort of old-fashioned way.

“The rain’s stopped,” you say, looking out the window.

“It has,” he concurs. “Would you like to stay and finish your tea?”

“I’d like that very much.”  
*  
He tidies up the mugs when you’re gone. He watches you leave, folding your coat and placing it in the crook of your arm before scuttling our into the sunshine. Even when you were carrying another human around with you, you still managed to walk with a sort of grace he didn’t notice in others.

He hopes he’s done the right thing. If he’s asked you and you felt pressured into saying yes he’d feel awful. But when he saw you sitting there, looking so alone and sad, it seemed like the least he could do. Offering a little bit of kindness. Besides, he’s an _angel_. That’s the sort of thing angels are meant to do, aren’t they?

The fact he found you impossibly charming was just an added bonus.

Aziraphale sighs and takes the mugs to the sink, hoping he’s done the right thing.   
*  
“I think you’d probably be better off trying to find that particular book with one of our competitors,” you say, gently shooing the customer back to the door.

“Are you sure? Could you look for me?”

“Quite sure, I know the stock very well,” you lie, and shut the door behind him. He looks confused before walking away. When you turn you see Aziraphale watching you, and he shoots you a thumbs up.

It’s been two weeks. You’re quite good at this job. In that, it’s easy to convince people not to buy things when you look at them with big doe eyes. And on one occasion you even faked contractions to get a customer to leave.

“I think you might be in running for employee of the month,” Aziraphale tells you as you totter back to behind the counter.

“I’m your _only_ employee, Aziraphale.”

“Then you’ll probably win,” he says, and you chuckle.

“Azirphale, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, my dear.”

“Can I put on some music? The shop’s awfully quiet.”

Aziraphale seems to take a moment before answering.

“What sort of music?”

You take a moment to size him up, thinking about what sort of music he might like for his age.

“Fleetwood Mac?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

Your eyebrows spring up. Not heard of Fleetwood Mac? This man is more out of touch than you thought.

“Well, what sort of music do you like?”

He pauses again for a moment to think before saying, “Queen. I like Queen.”

You light up and it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen.

“Queen it is!” you mess around with your phone a bit before a song starts blaring out of YouTube. Aziraphale goes back to busying himself and you both hope the other one doesn’t read into the fact the song playing is “somebody to love”.   
*  
It really is _lovely_ having you around, Aziraphale admits. He wasn’t sure if he’d regret the impulsive decision but it seems to be working out well. As much as he wants to deny it he does quite enjoy the company of someone else, happy to busy themselves in the bookshop but without necessarily needing to interact with him all the time. The sound of someone else turning a page, or gently singing to themselves. It’s very… homely.

You’re sitting down at the moment, reading a first edition copy of Wuthering Heights. You groan and touch your stomach.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asks from the opposite end of the room. You nod and sigh.

“I’m fine, they baby’s just kicking. Not a fan of Brontë I suppose.”

“He’ll learn,” Azirphale says, in a way which he thinks is equal parts wise and mysterious. You raise your eyebrows at him.

“What makes you sure I’m having a boy?” you ask, “even I don’t know. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“I’m… not sure. I suppose I’m just guessing,” he lies, because he does know. Of course he knows. He’s an angel. He can sort of sense these things.

What is the most wonderful though, is he can also sense the amount of love coming off of you in waves. Absolute and unconditional love from both you and the baby. It makes the whole place feel warm when you’re here. It seems silly to say, but Aziraphale _loves_ love. Being around you just makes him feel… happy.

And perhaps it’s even sillier, but he hopes you feel the same way around him.

“I don’t really care, so long as they’re happy and healthy,” you say with a sigh, rubbing your belly, then frowning, “and let me read my book in peace.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees, before adding under his breath, “but it is a boy.”  
*  
“Can I arrange these?” you ask, skimming your fingers over the spines of a shelf. Aziraphale looks up from his cocoa.

“Why?” he doesn’t seem annoyed, merely puzzled that anyone would want to change anything.

“Because it might be nice for them to be in an order.”

“I know what order they’re in.”

“I know you do, which is admirable - but it might be nice for me to do something helpful around here apart from scare away customers and make the tea.”

You don’t even do that second part much. Azirphale usually insists you sit down and rest your feet because of the baby. His tea always tastes much nicer than yours, so you don’t really mind.

“Alright, if you really want to,” he relents. It’s worth it for the way you smile.

“I’ll go and grab a notebook!” you say, hopping up and rushing to the back. It’s just as you disappear that the bell on the door chimes.

“Hello, angel. How’s business?”

Crowley’s voice washes over Aziraphale like a cold wave in the ocean.

“Oh, Crowley… how nice for you to drop by,” he says. And it is, of course. Crowley is his oldest friend. Any other time he’d be glad to see him.

But Crowley is also a demon. And demons tempt. He might not mean to, but he basically exudes it. Humans sort of just fall into sin around him. And he can’t let him… tempt you. Maybe he’s overreacting. But it’s something he doesn’t want to risk.

In order to keep you distracted, all the notebooks in the back office miraculously disappear.

“I’m actually frightfully busy, so if we could rearrange your visit that would be wonderful-”

“ _You_? Busy? You haven’t been busy since the sixteenth century.”

“Well, my schedule has changed all of a sudden. I simply insist you come back later,” he says, gently guiding Crowley to the door.

Crowley can only splutter as he’s mahandled out of the shop. Aziraphale waves cheerfully before locking the door and running into the back office. Crowley narrows his eyes behind his dark glasses. Something is going on with the angel and he’s going to find out what.  
*  
“Hurry up! Bakeoff’s about to start!” Aziraphale sounds almost frantic as you waddle over to the couch and plonk down next to him. Yes, waddle - eight months gone will do that to you.

“I had to wait for the microwave to ding. You don’t want un-popped corn do you?” you ask. Aziraphale mutters but takes the bowl from you. You’re here a lot later than you usually would be - but when you mentioned you were excited about the season premiere, he invited you to stay and watch it with him, given that he was a huge fan himself. It seemed like a lovely idea to spend more time with him in a way that would be completely innocent. Not that you were looking for more reasons to spend time with him. (You were.)

“I love this show but it always makes me so _hungry_ ,” you sigh. Plus your food cravings have been getting a lot worse lately. The third trimester has not been kind to your appetite. You ate spaghetti and sorbet the other day. In the same bowl. As like, a sauce.

“Would you like me to make you something to eat?” he asks, face serious and worried. He’s so sweet.

“We could order in? Do you have a deliveroo account?”

“What’s a deliveroo?”

You gawk.

“How do you live in the middle of London and not know what deliveroo is?”

You whip your phone out and show him the app.

“And you can order from any restaurant on this?”

“Pretty much. So long as it’s on the list.”

He looks at you like you’ve just hung the sun.

Seven boxes of shared Japanese food later, Aziraphale turns to you as Bakeoff ends to ask if you’d like the last tempura prawn. And you’ve fallen fast asleep.

He watches you and you gently snuggle into some of the many pillows he keeps on this sofa. There’s something so peaceful about humans sleeping. He’s reminded of just how vulnerable you are. He wants to protect you, _desperately_. Perhaps he’s being too forward, but in the low light of the evening, he wonders if you’d taste of sushi you just ate if he kissed you right now.

He shakes the idea from his head. No. He’s an _angel_ , for God’s sake. These sorts of thoughts are impure. But you look so tired and it would be rude to wake you now, so instead he gathers the empty takeaway boxes and puts a blanket over you - (he considers moving you to his bed and he can take the couch, but then worries how you would react to that once you wake up) - and turns off the light as he leaves the room. You stir but don’t wake. Aziraphale allows himself the indulgence of watching you for a moment before heading up to bed.

The next morning you’re completely embarrassed, of course. You’re mortified over the fact you fell asleep at your boss’s house. But instead of being angry with you at all he makes you breakfast. It’s french toast and it’s the most delicious thing you’ve had in ages.

“Maybe I should fall asleep here more often,” you joke - except it isn’t really a joke because you’d happily do so - as you desperately dab at your mouth to get rid of the excess powdered sugar.

“If you want,” he says back, and he doesn’t even think about it. The two of you stare at each other for a moment, both aware of how this conversation now sounds.

“I should go and open the shop-”

“I’d better go and get ready-”

The two of you speak together and then laugh, awkwardly. You avoid each other for the rest of the day.  
*  
Aziraphale: How do you use emogies?

 _The little smiley face on the keyboard will take you to the emojis_ 😁

Aziraphale: 😇😊😁😀😸😊

_That’s it!_

You weren’t exactly surprised when Aziraphale told you he didn’t have a mobile. When you took in the rest of the way that he… was, it seemed in line with his personality. But after that night you showed him deliveroo he rushed out to get one. You had to sort of explain how to use it, and you gave him your number - professionally, of course, because it was far easier for him to contact you that way. At least that’s what you were telling yourself. It didn’t stop your face lighting up with your phone screen every time he texted you.

Your phone buzzes again and you snatch it up. It’s not him this time, though. It’s the ‘baby binches’ groupchat.

Jan: How’s the job?

_it’s pretty good!_

Abbie: u fucked ur boss yet

_SHUT UP_

Abbie: hmmmmmmm NO DENIAL I SEE

Jan: Abbie calm down. If boss fucking happens it happens.

_I’m not being that person who fucks their boss_

You met Abbie and Jan in an expecting mothers support group and sort of formed a little clique. They’ve both been incredible during your pregnancy, truly rocks. It’s Jan’s first baby too, she’s having it and then going back to work while her partner stays at home, and it’s Abbie’s third. You’ve met her other kids a couple of times. They’re sweet. Twins, and you can see why Abbie is exhausted most of the time.

Abbie: will u send us a pic of him already

_I’m not sneaking a pic of my boss to you!!_

Abbie: why is he old. R u a golddigger. Its ok if u r we support each other in this group

Jan: Go get that dick.

_He’s… older i guess_

Abbie: OOOOOOOOOO I KNEW IT

Jan: How MUCH older?

 _Not like old old. Not weird old_.

Abbie: tell us the store name we wanna come and see for outselves

Abbie: *ourselves

Jan: Yeah we wanna see for outselves.

Abbie: i will end u

_My lunchbreak is ending, gotta go_

Abbie: DONT U LIE TO US

You click off the chat and sag back into the chair. You really hate that you have a crush on your boss. It’s so fucking cliche. A nice man comes along and offers you a job and because he shows you a tiny bit of human decency you fall head over heels for him. It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic.

But at the same time… he’s so _kind_ to you. You deserve a bit of kindness, right? And you think some of the things he’s saying are definitely flirty. He can’t be so obtuse as to not think he’s flirting. Unless he is. It’s quite possible.

You sigh and let yourself think about what it would be like to kiss him. Would he be hesitant? Would he kiss you back with gusto, pushing you up against one of the bookshelves? Would he tear at your blouse, kissing down your sternum, making you whine and not letting yourself hold back-

Whoa, where had _that_ come from?

“I’m going for a lunch meeting with one of the rare booksellers I'm in contact with, I’ll be back by - oh dear, are you quite alright? You seem flushed?”

You desperately wish you would be less flustered when you fantasise.

“I’m fine! Just having a hot flush. Nothing to worry about.”

“Oh. Alright. Well, if you need me, just give me a call,” he says, eyes full of concern. You smile at him.

“Of course. And I’ll make sure nothing gets sold while you’re out.”

He grins at you. “That’s my champion employee.”  
*  
Crowley’s had just about enough of the dodging. The sudden changes in calendar, the vagueness over the phone. It all comes to a head when he gets a text. A _text_!

 _Hullo, it’s Aziraphale. This is my mobile phone number_ 😊

He has to find out what’s going on. So he turns up at the bookshop unannounced, striding in through the door with what he likes to think is a flourish.

You’re reshelving books at the time. You’re on a little ladder - the smallest, sturdiest one Aziraphale could find. He worries about you climbing up too high and falling. It makes reorganisation a bit awkward though, especially for the highest bits.

You almost jump off the ladder in shock at Crowley’s entry. He stares at you. You stare at him. The books are being tidied. Bowie’s ‘Modern Love’ is playing. In the _bookshop_.

“There’s someone in the shop,” he announces.

“Umh. Yes.”

“Reshelving the books.”

“I am.”

“Aziraphale’s books.”

“Can I help you at all, sir?”

There’s the sound of another door being thrown open and footsteps rushing towards the main shop. It might be the fastest you’ve ever seen Aziraphale move. In fact he almost slams into the opposite wall.

“Crowley! How lovely to see you,” he says, panickedly looking between the two of you. “Have you met my, erm, new assistant?”

“Oh, you’re Crowley?” you ask. Aziraphale has mentioned him a couple of times in passing, but quickly changed the subject. You wondered who the mysterious man was.

“Could you go and make us a cup of tea?” Aziraphale asks you desperately. Sensing the mood you nod and gently descend the ladder, hurrying away into the back room.

“So this is why you’ve been keeping me away,” says Crowley, crossing his arms and pouting (though he’d deny it if anyone accused him of it).

“I just thought, erm, well, that you wouldn’t understand -”

“What do you think I’m going to do? Tempt a pregnant woman? Do you think so little of me, angel?”

“I was just worried.”

“About what?!”

“That you wouldn't like her.”

Crowley shuts his mouth with a clack. He thinks for a second.

“Why wouldn’t I like her?” his voice is more calm now. Aziraphale sighs and fiddles with the chain of his pocket watch.

“I don’t know. It’s a bit silly, isn’t it? Being… so protective over a human.”

“It’s not silly. We’ve been here for six thousand years. You’re bound to catch feelings for one of them.”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if… if it’s reciprocated.”

“Well have you said anything?”

“Of course not!” he looks shocked at the very notion. Crowley can’t do anything but laugh.

“Then how will you find out, eh?”

“Look, she’s pregnant. I don’t want to… take advantage of how she’s feeling, with the hormones. I don’t want her to make a mistake by choosing me.”

Crowley wants to tell him he could never be a mistake, but instead he just sighs. “And after the baby’s been born?”

“We’ll… see.”

“Humans die, you know. Eventually.”

“There are ways to prevent that. Or stave it off. Miraculous ways,” Aziraphale admits and Crowley’s brows skyrocket.

“You must _really_ care about this one.”

You scuttle back into the room, the tray perched on your belly.

“I do,” he says, and that conversation ends there.   
*  
“He seems nice,” you say, watching Crowley leave with a little wave. You’re not lying, he did. Chatty, charming. The polar opposite of Aziraphale in every conceivable way but then again opposites attract.

“Yes. He’s an… old friend.”

You almost chicken out before asking the question. “Is he your… boyfriend?”

“Oh! No,” says Aziraphale. He can understand how you’d make the assumption though. You look… relieved?

“I just wondered. I heard him call you ‘angel’, so I figured…”

“No, he’s just… affectionate, is all.”

“Not that I’d mind if you had a boyfriend!” you say quickly.

“I didn’t think you would! I wouldn’t mind if you had a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend, even. Or.”

He trails off.

“I don’t though.”

“Good. Oh! Erm, not good. I mean.”

If Crowley could see you now he’d probably roll his eyes. Instead the two of you mutter excuses and head in separate directions, both mentally cursing yourselves for not saying what you’d wanted to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it’s canon Crowley and Aziraphale are male presenting but not male, so that’s mentioned in this. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me for another silly little story.
> 
> Also (spoilers), descriptions of giving birth in this chapter, and mentions of slight premature birth. Only healthy babies though!

“Aziraphale, I need to talk to you.”

Aziraphale puts down his book and stares at you. You’re worried. He can tell from the way you rub your hands together.

“What’s the matter, my dear?”

He wonders if this is about the other week, after Crowley had left. You’d both sort of pretended nothing had happened and went on with business as usual.

He _wants_ to talk about it though. The things left unsaid. Desperately.

“I want to talk about what will happen once I’ve had the baby.”

“Ah.” Yes, that makes sense as well. He knew this conversation would come. “You’ll be wanting to take leave, I presume?”

“I suppose I’d better. But…”

“But?”

“It sounds silly. I don’t want to stop working. These past few weeks have been the best job I’ve ever had. But I can’t afford to have someone look after the baby,” you confess. Aziraphale thinks for a moment.

“What if we set up a crib here?”

“In the shop?”

“In the back. You’re doing a wonderful job of keeping customers at bay, so it will be easy enough for you to spend time with him. And I can always cover you when you need to nip out and, you know, take care of him. Maybe we could get you a papoose.”

He lets himself imagine for a moment - you, carrying the baby in one arm and books in the other, wearing a huge smile for him.

“That’s too generous, Aziraphale. I’d feel like I was taking advantage.”

“Nonsense. If I thought it was too much I’d not have suggested it.”

You consider it for a moment. You’re so excited to meet this baby. But the idea of being away from Aziraphale is… almost heartbreaking.

“Alright. I’ll pick up a cot later this week.”  
*  
Aziraphale has made a grave mistake.

You’re out in the front of the shop - you really do have a knack for making customers go away - and he’s in the back with a pile of wood and a book of instructions without words.

Aziraphale very rarely _hates_. But he hates this STUVA. He can’t remember if flat-pack furniture was an invention of his side’s or Crowley’s. The longer he tries to put this thing together he’s thinking the latter.

“Are you alright back here?”

He looks up at you. You’re standing in the doorway, smiling down at him, hands holding your stomach. You’re almost _glowing_.

“I’m fine. Just trying to work out the intricacies of Ikea furniture. Devilish stuff.”

You get to your haunches down next to Aziraphale and take the panels from him.

“I’ll take over. I basically had to build everything in my flat on my own. Including my roommates’ furniture.”

“You have roommates?”

You laugh.

“You think I can afford to live in London alone?”

“Well. Perhaps I was being a tad optimistic,” he admits. Then, “how do your roommates feel about the baby?”

“Not… great,” you admit. You go quiet then, looking down at the half-made crib. Images race through Aziraphale’s mind. You and the baby, being turned against. Being forced out of your house. With nowhere to go.

He wants to comfort you. So he reaches out and takes your hand, almost on impulse. You don’t jump, just look to where he’s touching you. Neither of you say anything as you turn your hand over and interlace your fingers with his. You simply exist together in the softness of being touched by someone who cares about you.

“It’s late. I should get home,” you eventually say. Aziraphale can do nothing but nod and withdraw his hand. “I’ll let you know when I get back safe.”

You leave the shop. It feels so much emptier without you there.

Aziraphale sighs and looks down to the pile of slats that should really resemble a crib by now. At a loss, he takes out his phone and calls Crowley.

*  
“Why don’t they use words for these things? Words were invented for a reason,” Crowley posits, before flinging the instructions down and mircaling it together.

“I’m sure your side will be asking about that when they check the paperwork.”

“Oh I’ll just tell them it was for nefarious purposes. For the royals or something. They love them down there.”

“The royal baby sleeping in an _Ikea_ crib?”

“You know, a fortnight ago you had no idea what Ikea was.”

“I suppose I’m being dragged into the modern day.”

“You really do like this one, don’t you?”

“I’m thinking about asking her to come and live with me.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Crowley wasn’t expecting that. “You care about her that much?”

“I do.”

“And the baby? Raising a baby would be a very _human_ thing to do. Properly raising it, not just being there as a gardener in the background giving sage advice.”

“Perhaps that’s not so bad. After all these years. To let ourselves experience a spot of humanity.”

Crowley hums a note. And when he leaves that evening, he takes out his phone and dials your number.

*  
Jan: you’re due soon, right?

_Couple of weeks._

Jan: excited?

 _Nervous_.

Abbie: u will b fine. besides u have ur sexy boss to come back to

_Will you SHUT UP WITH THIS ALREADY_

Abbie attaches a picture of herself in the group chat making a lewd gesture.

“You’ve been oddly quiet today,” Aziraphale mentions and you slap the text conversation away, jumping a bit at his voice.

You’re curled up - well, as curled up as you can be when carrying an almost full term baby - in an armchair, book in your lap.

“Sorry! I can get back to work if you want. Just distracted,” you wave the book at him.

“Are you still reading Pride and Prejudice?”

“No, actually, I’m re-reading it because it’s lovely.”

He passes you a cup of tea which you gratefully accept.

“Why? There are so many other books to choose from.”

“Because I like the love story. I want someone to love me like that one day,” you confess, resting the mug on your stomach.

This is it, Aziraphale thinks. The opening. The perfect chance to speak. And he’s got to say something. He’s got to. He’s got to screw his courage to the sticking place. (Well, perhaps bad phrasing for this particular situation. But the idea still stands.)

“I need to… I need to talk to you. Honestly, for a moment,” he says. He steels himself for a second and then reaches out and takes your hand.

He thought it would be soft, warm. But instead you’ve frozen under his touch.

“Aziraphale…”

“I know, I’m sorry if this is sudden, but I have to tell-”

“ _Aziraphale_.”

Your voice is the most serious he’s heard it. Your eyes are wide.

“What’s the matter?”

“My waters just broke.”

Aziraphale feels himself go pale.

“You’re early.”

“I _know_.”

There’s something he’s not heard before in your tone. _Fear_.

“Alright. I’m going to call an ambulance. Don’t worry.”

You nod but you’re shaking. And so is he as he forces “999” into the mobile phone he still doesn’t quite know how to use.

“Aziraphale. I’m scared.”

“I won’t leave you.”

It’s sort of… blurry. He should probably be paying more attention. But he’s _worried_. Humans are so fragile.

He remembers being in the ambulance. He hates it. It’s so cold and clinical, and he’s come to associate you with the cozy and comfortable. You’re in pain. All he can do is watch you and be there for you to cling onto, making little half moon marks from your nails digging into the back of his hand.

You get to the hospital and someone asks if he’s your partner. He goes to say no, but you scream “yes!” before he can. 

You’re taken into a room and you cry and you push and you _push_. The doctors use a lot of jargon he doesn’t really understand. All he knows is that he’s there, right beside you, holding onto your hand and anchoring you.

“Don’t leave me,” you beg, your face streaked with tears.

“I won’t. I promise.”

There’s screeches of pain. There’s blood. Is there too much blood? He doesn’t know. He wishes he knew. He’s been on Earth for six thousand years and yet, in all that time, he’s never felt more _useless_.

And then there’s the sound of a baby crying.

“It’s a boy!”

They give him to you. Your baby. And you hold him and you cry.

“You were right,” you whisper to him. “A boy.”

“He’s lovely,” Aziraphale admits. He his. Tiny and sort of… grumpy. But lovely.

They cut the cord and clean him up and give him to you again. They leave you alone for a bit. You and him and Aziraphale. You sit there in silence for a moment, you taking in your baby, him watching you.

“It sounds silly, but I’ve not thought of any names. I almost didn’t want to jinx it. Just in case.”

You look up at Aziraphale. Even in the flourescent light of the hospital, he looks so soft. Angelic.

“Well, can you think of any now?”

“Can you?” you ask.

It seems strange, but Aziraphale hasn’t really taken notes of too many names. He knows ‘Adam’, naturally. And ‘Eve’.

And then, of course, there’s...

“Anthony.”

You hum a little note and hold him tighter to you.

“Anthony. Little Anthony. I like it,” you whisper.  
*  
You rest for just over a day in the hospital. Aziraphale doesn’t leave your side. He’s still a little out of place here, his gentle colours not mixing well with the clinical whiteness of the place. But there he stays, a rock. He reads to you from a book he’s brought (because of course he’s brought a book.)

He holds little baby Anthony for the first time when they’re doing some checkups on you, and you fall fast asleep soon after. You need the rest. You’ve been awake for hours on end, and he’s surprised you didn’t succumb to exhaustion.

One of the doctors smiles at him holding the baby.

“You’re a lucky man,” she says. Aziraphale smiles back. The baby isn’t his, but he likes to think it wouldn’t make you any less of a family.

You’re allowed to leave on the evening of the next day. Apart from being a bit early and a bit smaller than ideal, Anthony’s perfectly healthy. On the steps of the hospital, you turn to him and ask “can we go back to the bookshop? Please. I don’t know if… if I want to go home yet.”

 _But my dear, the bookshop_ is _your home_.

“Of course.”

It’s late when you get back. When you go to put him down, the crib is far more put together than you remember. There’s a few soft blankets, and a little mobile on the side. There’s even a teddy. Anthony’s already asleep, and doesn’t stir when you put him down.

“I’ll make a cup of tea,” Aziraphale says quietly, and you follow him into the kitchen, softly closing the door behind you. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore. Tired. But… so happy.”

He sneaks a glance at you. The glow hasn’t stopped even though you’ve given birth. You’re still _radiant_.

“Thank you,” you tell him as he’s filling the kettle, catching him quite offguard.

“For what?”

“For what?!” you laugh a little. “For everything, Aziraphale. You were there while I gave _birth_.”

“Of course I was,” he says, and it’s so simple it’s as if he’s stating the colour of the sky.

“You’ve done so much for me. For us. And you didn’t have to.”

“I’ve done nothing you didn’t deserve.”

He doesn’t expect you to burst into tears.

“My dear-” he whispers, and you clench your hands to your face to smother your cries.

“You’ve been so kind to me. _Too_ kind,” you sob. He hesitates for a moment before reaching out to caress you, and instead you step into his arms. In all of the ways he imagined things would go he couldn’t think of this one.

Carefully he raises his arms and wraps you in them. You shift under his grip to move more comfortably against him. You don’t stop sobbing.

“You didn’t need to do all this for me. I’ve been taking advantage of you. I shouldn’t be accepting all this from my boss.”

Aziraphale is about to say a word he’s never said before. He doesn’t know what it’s going to sound like when he says it out loud.

“What about from… from your boyfriend?”

You go completely silent. He’s worried he’s said the wrong thing. You don’t move back from his grasp.

“Would you… do that? Take me on? Take us on?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Why?” you’re almost so quiet he can’t hear you.

“I _cherish_ you.”

Your breath hitches in your chest and you stare at him, long and hard. The tears have stopped. Slowly, as if to go too fast he’d scare you off, his hands trail up the length of your arms, tickling the little hairs there, and come to rest on your face.

He says the next bit out loud. It’s not very romantic. He wanted to just do it. But the words tumble out of his mouth anyway.

“I’m going to kiss you now,”

“Yes please,” you whisper, and so he does.

It’s wet. Of course it is, you've been crying. But it’s also _nice_. You tremble against him when your lips make contact but then relax, and he slows pushes against you. Your hand goes up and rests in his hair as your mouth moves against his.

As far as first kisses go it’s quite chaste, but then again, Aziraphale doesn’t _know_ much about kissing. He’s seen it done, of course. Read about it. This is the first time he’s actually tried it out for himself. But judging by the soft smile on your face when you pull away, he guesses he’s done a good job.

“There’s something else I have to tell you,” he confesses. He’s on a roll. But this is the news you might not take so well. He sort of blurts it out.

“I’m an angel.”

“Oh. I know.”

Aziraphale sighs. He was worried it would go this way. “No, I need you to understand. I’m being literal.”

“I _know_ , Aziraphale.”

“How - what do you mean you know?”

“Crowley told me.”

He can feel his mouth drop open.

“Crowley… told you…”

“Yes. He took my number when we first met, in case we needed to talk about anything. And then he called me the other night because he said he needed to have a chat about you. So I invited him round for dinner and he told me about the two of you and I didn’t believe him and then he turned into a snake.”

“Oh,” is all he can say in return.

“Yes. I fainted but he caught me.”

Aziraphale feels a bit… angry.

“Doing that to a pregnant woman? He didn’t know what sort of shock it could give you - what if it hurt the baby -?!”

You chuckle and hold his face in your hands. He shuts up immediately.

“It’s fine. I’m glad he told me. Are you still… happy to be with me?”

“Of course.” Well, seeing as he’s on a role. “Come and live with me. Here. A safe place to raise the baby.”

“ _Yes_.”

*

It’s a strange little family he finds himself in. You move in the next day, with the help of a friend and a van. You don’t have many things, and most of your furniture is for the baby. Aziraphale has a spare room which you use for Anthony’s bedroom and nursery. He’s not sure if he should offer you a room as well. He’d quite like to sleep in the same bed as you, but he doesn’t know how to approach that without sounding like he’s pressuring you. Luckily he doesn’t have to worry, as you ask him “where’s our bedroom?” whilst holding a box labelled ‘cds and other tat’. He directs you happily.

You don’t _actually_ share a bed for the first couple of days. You still seem a bit shy of the situation. That, and the fact you’re up with Anthony most of the time and usually fall asleep in the armchair in his room. But one night the baby goes down easily and he hears a quiet knock at the door. He looks up from his book as you come in, wearing a pair of short pyjamas, tugging down at the legs to try and hide as much skin as you can.  
  
“He’s down for the night,” you say, before tentatively making your way over and getting into bed. It’s odd to feel the weight of someone down next to him. You leave a few inches of space, unsure of how to initiate contact.

“What are you reading?”

“Pride and Prejudice. I thought I’d give it another go,” he confesses. You smile at him and snuggle down into the blankets, and he finds himself reading out loud to you before you drift off.

After you fall asleep he watches you for a while. Just to enjoy the humanity of it. He doesn’t really need to sleep, but he does let himself indulge in it sometimes. There’s a baby monitor on the table next to your bed, and when he hears Anthony beginning to cry, he leaves you to rest and comforts the child himself.

Anthony always calms down when he holds him. One of the boons of being an angel.  
*  
And just like that, he falls so easily in to the steps.

He dotes on Anthony. He finds himself coming back with baby onesies he doesn’t quite remember buying.

“Look,” he gushes, “this one has a little book pattern!”

You reply with an “aww” and you’re not sure if it’s at the clothing or Aziraphale’s excitement.

The two of you get used to romantic domesticity as well. Sharing kisses when passing cups of tea. Sleeping in the same bed. You like to be the one to hold him at night, pressing your chest up against his back. The “big spoon”, you say. He doesn’t mind the position but one night you press a sleepy kiss into his spine in _just_ the right way and it feels so good his wing flips out in response - so vigorously it pushes you out of bed and onto the floor with a squawk.

You’re not hurt, just incredibly surprised. Nevertheless he apologises _profusely_. He’s the big spoon from then on.

On the family side, an outsider would comment that when one of you holds the baby, the other one looks at the pair of you with such adoration that it’s almost sickeningly sweet. You’re glowing every time Aziraphale sees you talking to your baby, reading out little snippets of old books to him. And it makes your heart feel full when Aziraphale picks up little Anthony and he calms down, instead utterly fascinated with the blonde-haired man above him.

You’re cuddled on the sofa one night. Anthony is fast asleep in his cot and you’re watching something mindless on television. Your head is rested on Aziraphale’s chest and it takes him a moment to notice you’re not watching the show any more. You’re watching _him_.

“Yes?” he asks, them you reach up and kiss him.

It’s the most passionate kiss the two of you have shared. He feels your tongue touch the tip of his and he opens his mouth a little more. You readjust, clambering into his lap and holding the lapels of his jacket.

Your mouth works against his and he feels a heat rushing through his body, one he’s not felt before. You grind your hips down into him and he chokes out a little “ _oh_ ”. Then you furrow your brow and do it again. Aziraphale looks up at you, and you look like you’re about to say something, but then you hear Anthony sob in the next room.

“We’ll… continue this later?” you ask. Flustered, all he can do is nod as you leave the room.

Right. Sex. Sex is going to happen.

He’s fine with that. Excited, even! He’s never felt the need to have sex before, the want, but that was before he met you. He can feel something stir in himself when he watches you sometimes, something primal, something _human_. He wants to bed you. But in order to do that he’s going to have to manifest the right… parts.

When he was given this body, it wasn’t equipped with reproductive organs. Heaven had assumed he wouldn’t need them. What does an angel want to copulate for? That’s a human thing and he is not human.

Then there’s the trouble of what to put there. He’s not a man, he’s an angel, but he uses masculine pronouns and presents as male, so he guesses he should start off with… well, what you, ahem, _don’t_ have. For the time being anyway. You’ve mentioned having girlfriends in the past so he assumes you don’t have a preference, but he’ll try that out for now.

You do nothing more physically intimate for the next few days than little kisses when you have time to yourselves. And in between those times he’s… researching.

He reads books. A lot of books. The ones he doesn’t usually read. The… _romantic_ ones. Researching what exactly he should be manifesting. What people seem to enjoy. And while he’s at it, he reads up on what precisely he needs to do when it comes to… the act. It all seems a bit messy to him, but what does he know. And after a week of hard research and things that, had they need internet searches may have been incriminating, he feels about as well-versed in sex as he’s ever going to be without actually doing it.

When it happens, he’s going to be ready.

It’s been about eight weeks since you moved in. The two of you are in bed, watching Netflix on your iPad. He thoroughly enjoys the cooking shows, and your hand is slowly stroking little circles onto his chest. He hums in pleasure and reaches down to kiss you. You tangle your hand in his blonde curls and tug him down. The show forgotten, you climb into his lap, gently coaxing his tongue against yours, your teeth clacking as you rock down. He lets out a little “ _ah_!” at that, and stops for a moment to catch his breath.

“We don’t have to,” you say suddenly, pulling away. “I don’t want you to think I’m hurrying you into anything.”

“I don’t think that,” he replies, “why, do you not want to?”

“Oh no! I do. I _do_. I just want to make sure we both do.”

As an answer, his lips surge up to meet yours again. He loves the weight of you in his lap. The firm warmth of having someone pressed close to you. He takes a moment to steady yourself and then carefully, he slides off your jumper.

Sex is utterly unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. That true physical intimacy with someone. The little reactions he can spark from you, only him, just in this way. When he touches his hand between your legs and you keel against him. How your breath flutters out of you when he moves his mouth to your throat. And in return it feels so good, like when your mouth dips below his belt line and he can only whisper “oh _goodness_ ” in response.

He lays back in the bed and lets you press down on him. The feeling of you moving with him inside you is _incredible_. He finds his breath coming out in short pants, and his hands rise involuntarily to your waist and sink in to the flesh he finds there. He hears you giggle at that and it’s beautiful.

“Oh my _god_ ,” you moan through gritted teeth.

“Don't use that name,” he replies, sitting up, whispering into the shell of your ear.

You cotton on to what he means.

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” is what you switch to, his name dripping off your tongue like honey.

He finds the altar of your desire and he worships. He’s never been on his knees before anyone but _god_ but you take him there.

Your hand tickles down his spine and he feels his wings release. He’s about to retract them but then he feels you touching him there, ruffling fingers between the feathers, and it’s almost sinful how good it feels. So he lets himself indulge and his wings gently move around the two of you, cocooning you in this little piece of paradise your bodies have found when you release together.

All he can do is lie back and try to catch his breath for a moment afterwards. He hears you laugh, joyful, and throw an arm over your eyes as you relax.

“Am I going to go to hell for that?” you ask. He hums and wraps you in his arms.

“No. I’ll make sure of it,” he mutters, and you believe him.

“I love you,” you confess, because it feels right in this moment, to tell him something he surely already knows.

“I love you too,” he replies, and he means it with his whole soul.

*

Crowley comes in the next day with his usual swagger. He’s met with the sight of a baby on your front as you reshelf books, Aziraphale sneaking adoring glances at you over the top of his novel.

“Oh god, I’ve not walked into domestic bliss have I?” he asks, rolling his eyes. You stick your tongue out as he saunters over to meet the new addition.

“Har-har. Hello Crowley. Would you like to hold him?” you ask.

“Only if you think I won’t corrupt the little blighter,” he replies.

“I think he’s safe. Here you go, mind the neck-”

“I’ve held _babies_ before,” he scoffs, gently cradling little Anthony to him, who looks up with his big, innocent eyes. Crowley tries to hide the little smile the baby coaxes out of him. He looks quite sweet - perhaps he could be the baby’s godfather. Well, satanfather.

“What’s his name?”

“Oh, Anthony.”

“You named him after me!”

Aziraphale freezes behind his book and sneaks a glance. You’ve got an odd little smile on your face.

“We named him after…” you trail off.

“Well, Anthony’s my name.”

“Hmm,” you say, and turn to Aziraphale. He’s going to be _talked_ to tonight, he can tell. But he’ll get you back on his side with a few cups of tea. You can’t be angry at him for too long.

He’s an angel, after all. 


End file.
